RETROSPECTION
Nearly forty, or, to be exact, thirty-nine years of my life have
been covered by this narrative, now drawing to its conclusion.
As I sit at my writing-table, memory carries me back to the first
chapter, and even before--to my school-boy days, those happy days
when care was unknown.
The panorama moves slowly on before my mental vision and I see
myself a youth at the portal of manhood.
Into view now comes the fair girl who honored and blessed me with
a love that has proved almost beyond the power of conception. As I
raise my eyes from the paper they rest on her dear face. Wonderful
to relate, no lines of care do I discover. Save for the premature
and very becoming silver of her hair and the matronly development
of figure there is but little indication of the many years that
have passed since we joined hands in our voyage of life. As her
glance meets mine, she flashes at me, as in the days of yore, the
same sweet smile of love and tenderness.
The early years of our married life appear before me. Those years
when periods of worry alternated with others of freedom from care.
The years of my early struggle against heavy odds, to gain success.
The years of "Love's young dream" how sweet that side of my life
seemed then, and how far sweeter, deeper, stronger seems now the
love of our later years through the triumphs and trials those years
brought with them.
To my mind comes the successive births of our children and the joy
the advent of each brought into our family circle.
And now I see myself in the delirium of that well-nigh fatal illness
when but for my devoted wife's careful nursing the occasion for
writing this narrative would never have arisen.
The scene changes and year after year of prosperity rolls into view.
Those years when with wealth steadily increasing I reveled in the
business I had created and reared to such large proportions. The
thought of the contrast with present conditions for an instant
stops the beating of my heart--and yet I think, "'Tis better to
have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all."
Now comes that day when I considered the question of retiring from
business. Oh! why did not the fates then guide me rightly? What
years of misery would have been spared to those I loved--and yet
that very love was the motive that swayed me.
The pictures change. Clouds gather and darken the sunshine of my
life. Crashes of thunder sound in my ears and the storm of my first
failure is upon me. "The ship founders." God help the passengers
and crew!
The boat is launched and gathers them in--can it make the shore?
Here and there a little smooth water, an occasional rift of light
through the clouds--alas! only to be followed by greater darkness--and
the pictures cease. But no, there is still one to come.
The boat is aground. Mountains of surf dash on the rocky coast,
seeking to tear the frail craft to pieces. In the perspective behold
the sea of many years, studded with the crafts of those friends of
my former good ship _Prosperity_. How many I see that owe to me,
some only a pennant, many a sail or two, and others the stanch deck
on which they stand.
Do they see our signal of distress? Beyond a doubt. Do they answer
it? Wait.
Speeding toward us, with the flag of true friendship flying at the
peak, comes a gallant ship. In letters of gold the name _Dwight
Temple_ stands out from the bow. Many times we have asked aid from
its owner and never once has it been refused, though in our great
wreck his loss was heavy. Here comes to our relief the good ship
_George Todd_, a friend that has never failed; but in many of our
dark hours his ship has sailed in foreign waters, far removed from
our troubled seas. Then comes sailing right for us _Charlie Fitch_,
never but once appealed to, and then did his best and instantly to
help us. And now one more, the _Carleton Cushing,_--a true friend,
a heart of oak, but the craft too small to avail in a heavy sea--and
that is all!
How about the great ocean steamer which could take on board our
whole boat and never miss the cost? Has the captain seen our signals?
Seen them?--yes, again and again, written in letters of blood drawn
from our hearts, and ignored them. Freighted with probably fifty
millions of dollars that ship goes from port to port doing good.
It must be so, for these philanthropic acts have been widely
advertised. But while we have sailed in the same waters for nearly
forty years our boat is now too small to be noticed, though once
we did receive a keg of ship biscuit for which we still owe and
are not ungrateful.
And there is another large steamer--how about that one? No help
for us there. We sailed in company for years, but now that steamer,
the _Viedler,_ is bound on a voyage of discovery to the North Pole
and has no desire to aid a craft which has met with disaster, even
though manned by old friends.
And so it is with all the rest.
See all those small boats--not one but has seen our signals of
trouble. We did not expect from them material aid. They are too
small to give it. But though for many years we have been friends,
helping them time and time again in their days of need, they have
forgotten us. From them we looked for the touch of sympathy, the
firm grasp of the hand, the friendly word of encouragement, and we
looked in vain. Not even to the woman came a single line to lighten
her burden.
It's the way of the world. Thank God, I have been able to chronicle
exceptions, even though so few.